Author's Note:
Hey everyone! And welcome to my first story. This plot was inspired by a book I read called "Mask of Paradise" by Jennifer Bacia so if you've ever read that and found that this story seems familiar, well now you know! If you haven't, well... you know anyways. Reviews are welcomed! But please don't roast me too hard if this story sucks lol I'm only a beginner.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Veronica Roth's "Divergent" or Jennifer Bacia's "Mask of Paradise" so please don't sue me.
Prologue:
William Congreve knew what he was talking about when he wrote, "Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd, nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd."
At the time, I hadn't known what he meant by that. But when I saw a glimpse of burning fire flash within her eyes, I finally understood every word and its profundity.
Though it was brief, her expression had been one to remember forever. It had been so visceral that my blood runs cold just thinking about it.
Those mesmerising eyes of hers; for once, they hadn't been cryptic or ambiguous. Instead, every emotion running through them had been clear. Almost on full display.
They had been the very depths of hell.
I knew everything had changed for her then.
There was no forgetting.
As I sipped on my Merlot, the chipped wine glass seeming more broken than I had remembered, I tried to picture her face as a child.
But I couldn't.
All I could see was the way her eyes had darkened.
The way they had become a storm in broad daylight was dangerous. With brows furrowed together, the quiet girl I knew became a fierce warrior for a fleeting moment.
The hairs on my neck had stood up at the familiarity of it all.
I had seen that look before. I had felt that same intensity emitting from her mother while we were in our youth.
They had the same fighting spirit and dangerous aura that came from having their minds set firmly on something.
As the last of my wine is downed in one gulp, the click of a door closing suddenly echoes throughout the house. The noise shocks me momentarily.
The glass in my hand almost slips from my grip but out of reflex, I manage to catch it by its stem. Exhaling a shaky breath, I place the glass down onto the bench top just as she walks into the kitchen.
I steadily smile at her.
She returns the gesture but it doesn't reach her eyes.
There is no sign of fire anywhere.
They are, however, more clouded than they used to be.
With feather-light steps, she heads towards the refrigerator and grabs out a carton of milk.
I raise a brow at this. She has never been a fan of milk.
As I watch her every move, I notice how she doesn't look at me once. To any other person, it would seem that she gives nothing away.
But after years of being her guardian, I can tell this much; she is troubled.
Growing up, she had always been an impassive child. Smiles were few, tears never fell and emotions of any kind were rarely shown.
However, an underlying anger was being sensed now and handling it was something I wasn't quite sure on how to do.
As she goes about, collecting a glass for her drink, I try to think of something to say.
I come up empty.
I don't even know if there's anything appropriate to say but the need to talk to her is so prominent that I ask the first thing that comes to mind.
"How are you feeling?"
For a moment, the question lingers awkwardly into the air.
And as she remains silent, I begin to think that perhaps that was the wrong thing to ask.
Just as I'm about to retract the query, she responds.
"Peachy," she quietly answers. Her voice is coarse as she avoids eye contact still.
I don't know how to react.
Her reply had been just as perplexing as she was as a person.
As I tried to recollect my thoughts, she suddenly carries the conversation.
"Are you afraid of me, Tori?"
My gaze quickly focuses on her.
She is staring back now.
And though a million thoughts crosses my mind, I don't know what to think.
No one ever imagines a child asking them such a thing.
Though there was no malice in her voice, nor any hints of superiority, not knowing what was going through her mind was terrifying.
And as much as I tried to study her, searching desperately for signs, I knew it was pointless. She hid them too well.
Do I even want to know what she is thinking? What if it's more terrifying than not knowing?
When I notice she is still awaiting my response, I quickly compose myself and slowly shake my head.
"No."
It's the truth.
I don't fear her. How could I?
However...
... I do fear her thoughts. I fear the feelings she doesn't show. And what they are capable of.
If her nature was anything like her mothers, there was plenty to fear.
After what felt like an everlasting moment, her mouth steadily turns upwards into a small smile. "I'm glad" she replies as she lifts the glass of milk to her lips. And in only a few gulps, the white drink is completely gone.
She sighs as she places her cup into the sink.
Her movements are slow. And as she does so, the silence begins to shift, bordering on eeriness.
There is an unsettling feeling that lies before me that I can't seem to shake off.
"Am I anything like my mother, Tori?" she then whispers in question.
Ignoring the unnerving atmosphere that creeps, I smile and nod at the mention.
"The resemblance is uncanny" I joke, lightheartedly. But when she expresses no sign of contentment at hearing this, I feel my smile drop.
"Would she do what I'm about to do?" she continues.
My eyes widen.
My heart starts to race, violently slamming against my ribcage. Every bad assumption flows into my head. My breaths picks its pace and I find it difficult to keep them even.
I try to swallow my nerves but the feeling remains.
"What are you going to do, Tris?" I ask her cautiously.
Her head droops as she lets out a silent snort.
Loose strands of her blonde hair fall onto her face, covering her expression. Until finally, she glances up.
When I see the look on her face, something about it grounds me.
Despite the inkling of wariness that lingers still, the hints of determination that flickers behind her gaze is soothing.
Resting my elbow on top of the bench in front of me, I lean my chin onto my fist and watch her intently. Observing the way her lips twist into a small smirk, my eyes narrow in curiosity when she simply answers,
"I'm going to make them remember."